


Accuracy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Awkward Kissing, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Even now, during the hours of practice they spend with the weight of the football between them, Tetsuma hasn’t spoken even once, and Shien only as he wants to, without the weight of expectation forcing him to words he doesn’t want to form." Shien finds Tetsuma's silence a comfort, and Tetsuma has better aim than Shien.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accuracy

Tetsuma is always quiet.

Shien likes that about him. There’s a lot of things that make Tetsuma’s presence a comfort, but his silence is high on Shien’s personal prioritization. There’s a burden to conversation, to meeting the requirements of small talk and keeping to the politeness that is expected of his family name; it’s pleasant to be free of it even if only temporarily, even if only in the presence of the boy Shien has never known to speak aloud in all the time they’ve known each other. Even now, during the hours of practice they spend with the weight of the football between them, Tetsuma hasn’t spoken even once, and Shien only as he wants to, without the weight of expectation forcing him to words he doesn’t want to form; even after Shien’s stopped tossing the ball in a clean spiral to Tetsuma’s waiting hands and they’ve moved to sit against the shade of the house to catch their breath it’s quiet, the space between them absent anything but the sound of tired breathing and the weight of the football under Shien’s idle touch.

Time passes. Shien isn’t sure how long; a few minutes, maybe several, it’s hard to say with his thoughts hazy on the physical exhaustion that grips his entire body. It’s a relief to let his mind go still for a few minutes, to let the rhythm of his breathing dominate his senses; Shien tips his head back against the brick behind him, lets his gaze drift hazily across the clouds marking the sky overhead, and for once he doesn’t think about anything at all.

The sound is startling. For a moment Shien thinks it’s Tetsuma talking, doing the unprecedented and offering words to fill the comfort of the silence. But then he feels the vibration in his chest, feels the motion at his mouth, and he realizes that he’s the one speaking, that he can feel words forming themselves on his tongue from somewhere in the hazy distraction of his unconscious thoughts.

“Thank you,” he says, tasting the sincerity on his lips as his voice dips and hums into emotion that would be embarrassing were he with anyone who would judge him, were he with anyone not Tetsuma. “For playing with me.” He doesn’t look at Tetsuma; it’s easier to look at the sky, to let the bright of the sunlight ache at his eyes and give him an excuse for the damp trying to collect at his lashes whenever he blinks. “It’s more fun to play with someone else.” He reaches out without looking to touch his fingertips to the laces of the football; they fit into the grooves laid by the stitches, friction catching at his skin like the ball is trying to hold itself against his palm. It’s different than the grip of a gun, softer and warmer in his hold; there’s none of the oil-slick drag of metal, none of the weight of the trigger under his finger, none of the pressure to succeed crushing itself down over Shien’s shoulders. When he tightens his hold he doesn’t have to think about where he’s pressing, doesn’t have to worry about the click of machinery shifting under the movement of his hand; there’s just the give of leather warmed by the sun and soft from the grip of two sets of palms, the traction against the sides worn down to comfortable friction by the hours of practicing Shien and Tetsuma have already put on it.

There’s pressure, a weight against Shien’s hand, a warmth heavier and greater than the faint heat offered by the sunlight. He looks down, reeling his attention away from the sky and to the extension of his hand splayed over the laces of the football, and to Tetsuma’s fingers stretched out over the top of his own. Tetsuma’s hand is hot to the touch, rough with calluses totally unlike the odd patterns Shien’s achieved from the drag of metal under his index finger and the weight of a gun’s grip against the inside line of his thumb. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t shift his fingers at all; he just presses his hand against Shien’s, the flex of his palm fitting against the tendons at the back of Shien’s fingers. When Shien looks up to Tetsuma’s face the other boy is staring at their hands, his brows knit and mouth drawn into a frown. On someone else the expression would be foreboding, would indicate some kind of discomfort with the situation. After knowing Tetsuma as long as he has, Shien knows better than to make that assumption when it comes to the other; the indication of his mood comes in the slant of his shoulders, and the ease of his hand on the other’s, both of which say that he’s happy, that he’s content in the way Shien so rarely sees him.

“I’m glad you don’t mind,” Shien says, feeling his mouth form itself into the shape of a smile so unusual it’s hard to remember the curve of it, hard to recall how to let his face relax enough for the expression to spread over his features. Even once it’s formed he’s not sure it reaches his eyes; he hopes it’s enough to convey his sincerity as Tetsuma lifts his gaze to stare fixedly at Shien’s face. “I know you have other things to do than just keep me company.” Tetsuma’s frown deepens, the dark of his eyebrows draw in closer together, but he doesn’t respond, and Shien keeps talking, the words finding their way out of his throat like a wave he can’t manage to swallow back. “If you want to do something else we can. We don’t always have to do what I want to do.” He smiles weakly, ducks his head until a lock of hair falls in front of his face to cast a shadow on the sunlight hitting his skin. Tetsuma’s hand is still pressed against his, still pinning Shien’s fingers to the weight of the football. “It’s not like we can keep doing this forever, after all.”

Tetsuma’s hand shifts. For a moment Shien thinks he’s pulling away, that he’s going to withdraw his touch and get up and leave, obedient to the not-quite-command at the back of Shien’s tongue. But there’s weight instead of removal, heat crushing Shien’s fingers down against the laces of the football, and Shien realizes Tetsuma is leaning in, balancing against the press of their hands as he does. Shien lifts his head, his forehead creasing in confusion, and Tetsuma is close, startlingly close, so close Shien can see the individual lashes framing the dark focus in his stare. He’s not watching Shien’s eyes; he’s looking down instead, a few inches off from the focus of the other’s gaze, and his mouth is still set into that line of determination, like all the power in the world couldn’t sway him from his course. Shien takes a breath, startled into a moment of helpless hope -- and Tetsuma’s mouth touches his, the hard line of his lips bumping against the parted warmth of Shien’s.

Shien doesn’t breathe. Shien doesn’t move. Shien doesn’t even think. There’s just silence, the quiet in the air between them ringing with echoing violence in the emptiness in his head too, and Tetsuma lingering against him like he can fit their mouths together better if he just waits for something to give way. His mouth is hot, Shien notices very distantly, radiant and warmer even than his fingers, and damp enough that Shien can feel the moisture of Tetsuma’s lips catching to stick the friction of their mouths together. Then Tetsuma pulls back, his mouth dragging free of Shien’s, and Shien is left to blink at him while Tetsuma huffs an exhale through his nose and brings the dark of his eyes back into focus on Shien’s. His stare is heavy, unreadable with any subtlety other than its intensity, and his expression is still taut on the same concentration it showed before; he looks almost identical to the way he did a moment ago except for the curve of his frown, where sunlight is catching a spot of damp clinging to his lower lip. Shien’s gaze drops and lingers there, his blank thoughts struggling themselves into coherency, and from very far away, as if someone else’s thought entirely: _that’s from my mouth_.

Shien takes a breath. It catches in his throat, stutters into sound in the air; his heart is pounding very hard and very slowly, falling into the odd deliberate panic he feels during tournaments, sometimes, when the target is waiting and the gun is in his hands and the roar of the adrenaline in his ears has turned to the far-off hum of white noise. He lets his breath go.

“Tetsuma,” he says, his voice echoing so distantly that he can’t hear the sound, can only know he’s talking at all from the vibration purring inside his chest like gunpowder smouldering in the prelude to an explosion. “Can.” But his words die, the shape of hope stretching too tight in his chest for him to dare put words to it, as if by trying to pin it into the shape of a request the mere possibility of rejection will be too much, as if the happiness sweeping into his veins will melt and vanish if he lets it live too long.

Tetsuma doesn’t blink, and Tetsuma doesn’t look away. He just stares at Shien, holds the other’s gaze so long Shien wonders if he spoke at all, if that hiss of sound in his chest wasn’t an illusion after all. But then there’s movement, fingers tensing very slightly over Shien’s hand, and Shien is still taking a sudden inhale when Tetsuma nods, slow and so deliberately there can be no misunderstanding it.

Shien doesn’t say anything. The moment stretches long, pulled taut on silence now straining under the weight of anticipation, of hope so fragile Shien is holding his breath for fear an inhale will shatter it. It’s only Tetsuma watching him that keeps him in place, Tetsuma’s hand pressing against his and Tetsuma’s gaze meeting his with the same absolute certainty that the other boy has always shown, with the complete faith in him that Shien has never once felt in himself. With Tetsuma watching him Shien can do what he could never do alone, can be the person he would never have been otherwise, can lean in over the warm shape of the football under his palm and lift his chin and fit his mouth to the wet clinging to Tetsuma’s lip.

He misses at first. His mouth bumps the corner of Tetsuma’s, his teeth catching the inside of his mouth at the impact and aching against the delicate skin. But Tetsuma turns his head to meet him, and slides the resistance of his lips against Shien’s, and when Shien lets his mouth go soft he finds it fits against the awkward line of Tetsuma’s far better than he expected it to.

He thinks with a little practice, he could learn to hit this mark every time.


End file.
